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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248036">A Merciful Motivation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgelyn/pseuds/Morgelyn'>Morgelyn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Coughing, Fear of Death, Fever, Hurt/Comfort (sort of), Kind of sweet...if you squint, M/M, Major Illness, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Sickfic, Stockholm Syndrome, Thramsay - Freeform, Threats of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:47:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,955</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248036</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgelyn/pseuds/Morgelyn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reek is ill and Ramsay helps him to get better. In his own way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy/Reek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Merciful Motivation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>OK, this is NOT about coronavirus at all, but if you are seriously anxious about that then you might want to avoid this. </p><p>And if you do read on, your comments would make me so very happy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western"> </p><p class="western">A bone-deep shudder shook him awake, cramps singing through wasted muscle and atrophied sinews. He stifled the whimper before it it could leave his lips – lessons hard learned had become instinct now, and Reek had long ago learned that drawing attention to himself was something to be avoided. Especially when, as now, he had no idea where he was and what was happening to him. So he grit his broken teeth and tried to ride out the cramps, with only the twitch of his limbs and the laboured intakes of breath to betray his suffering at all.</p><p class="western">He lay trembling after the cramps had passed, his narrow chest heaving. Every breath felt like sandpaper in his lungs, the sunken flesh between his prominent ribs burning as it stretched and contracted. With concerted effort, he forced open his eyes. A ceiling. Not the kennels, not the dungeon. Not a ceiling he recognised at all. That could be either good or bad. The ceiling was too low for any of the public areas of the keep and that was good, in that it meant he couldn't have passed out when he should have been performing whatever lowly duties he had been assigned, that he wasn't even now causing an embarrassment and bringing punishment down upon his head. But he was certainly lying on his back, and that did not bode well at all – when he slept, when he was <em>allowed</em><span> to sleep, he invariably curled himself into a ball on his side, stick-thin arms wrapped around his shivering body. The only time he was ever laid on his back was when his master was punishing him...</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>No no no no no!</em>
  <span> That was it. He was already being punished; that explained all the pain, the burning heat. He must be bound near a fire; not so close that his skin scorched and blistered, but close enough to drive an agonising heat through his flesh. His mind clawed desperately, trying to remember what he had done, what he was being punished </span>
  <em>for</em>
  <span>, so he could try to make amends, to mitigate it somehow. But there was nothing, it was like grasping at smoke, and his panic intensified. Shallow, hoarse breaths racked his chest. Then his world underwent a sudden lurch and disintegrated into blackness. </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>When he awoke again, he heard voices. They were distorted and distant, like sound through water. </span>
  <em>Is it the Drowned God calling me home? </em>
  <span>With horror, he forced the thought away – not only was it clearly the thought of someone who was not Reek, someone who had no place in Reek at all, but the idea that the Drowned God would take a pitiful wretch like him was ridiculous. He tried to focus on the voices, even as the effort made his head throb, but he could could catch only fragments that his exhausted mind was incapable of putting together. He lay still, hoping they had nothing to do with him and would soon go away. </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>Suddenly, a face loomed over his own and he flinched back violently, his eyes wide with fear. The face was broad and grey, but so close that he could not focus on the individual features. They swam in his vision as as he struggled to bring them together into something he could understand. As he did so, he felt a hand on his chest and shrieked in terror and confusion. </span>
  <em>What is happening? What should I be doing? What can I do to seek forgiveness, to make things all right?</em>
  <span> But the hand remained, pressing firmly but gently through the rags covering his burning chest to feel the rattle there as he struggled to breathe. The grey face too remained, speaking words he could not understand. The tone was gentle, reassuring, but that only increased the likelihood of it being a trick. There were no kind words for Reek, not genuine ones. Maybe this was the test he had to pass. </span>
</p><p class="western">Reek tried weakly to raise his hands, but he could not. Of course, he must be restrained, but he could not tell exactly how. Instead, he tried to speak and his voice emerged in a rasping whisper. “Please, sir, please don't. Reek is only allowed to be touched by...” He broke off into a series of hacking coughs. By the time they had passed, the hand was gone from his chest and he could feel something warm and wet dribbling down his chin, something that tasted of copper and smelled of iron. He did not know if the grey face was still there, as his field of vision had narrowed to a pin-prick surround by black.</p><p class="western">He feared he would pass out again, inevitably bringing more punishment on himself. But instead a voice cut through the shambles of his mind like a knife, a voice that could never be ignored.</p><p class="western">“<span>Reek. Be still and let the maester examine you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <em>My lord! </em>
  <span>Reek's body went rigid, instantaneously stilling all but the most minute of trembling. He still had no idea what was happening to him, but regardless of circumstances, obeying his lord immediately and without question was always the best course of action. </span>
</p><p class="western">He lay as still as he could as the maester probed his chest, feeling his laboured breathing and the rapid beating of his heart. As his vision began to return, his eyes sought to find his lord, to see what information could be gleaned from the expression on his face. Would he be angry? Amused? Aroused? None of them boded well, of course, but some could be better than others, depending on how Reek reacted. But he could see nothing beyond the maester's dispassionate face as he ran his professional hands over his body.</p><p class="western">A sudden, terrible thought struck him. The only time he had ever seen the maester in this place was when he had been in danger of bleeding to death, after his lord had taken... Maybe whatever it was had already been done to him. But no, that couldn't be it. He had nothing left to take! Nothing like that. Fingers and toes and skin, of course, but these were taken with painful regularity, and none had ever required a maester's intervention. He wished he was better able to think, to work out what had happened. But it was like thinking through mud and he gave up, head spinning. He had no choice in what his lord did to him anyway. And besides, it was probably already done.</p><p class="western">He forced himself to lie still. He had to be good, compliant, submissive Reek now, and show himself to be so. As ever, it was the only way he could think of that could avoid making it any worse, whatever it was. When the maester took his hands from his frail body and moved away, into the nebulous peripheries of his field of vision, Reek gave a quiet sigh of relief. A temporary reprieve, but a reprieve nonetheless. The distant voices started up again, but he still could not understand them. This time he barely tried. His lord was here and he would decide what would happen, regardless of whether Reek understood. He had been told to be still, so he would obey. That was all he could do.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">~~~~~</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">“<span>I shall hold you personally responsible, Maester.” Ramsay pronounced his title with utmost disdain. “If he dies, I shall have your bloated, sagging old skin as a cloak.”</span></p><p class="western">Wolkan suppressed a gulp. “I understand, my lord, but you too must understand, there is nothing I can do. If he survives the night, he may live. But the fever is strong and his body has been considerably weakened by...” He struggled to phrase it in a way least likely to provoke anger. “...the conditions in which he has been kept.”</p><p class="western">Ramsay scoffed in irritation. “So you are telling me that with all your books and learning and medicines, you can do nothing? If this is the case, please do enlighten me as to why my father should keep you around.”</p><p class="western">“<span>If he lives through the night, he can be given milk of the poppy. It will cause him to sleep and allow his body to use its limited energies in order to fight the infection from within.” Wolkan was offended by the insinuations of his incompetence, but his fear of the young bastard was stronger. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>So give it to him now, you fool!”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>My lord, I cannot. One effect of milk of the poppy is that it slows the breathing, and his breathing is dangerously laboured already. It would surely kill him.” A glimmer of pity emerged in Maester Wolkan then, one he barely recognised after spending so long tamping such emotions down during his long service to the Boltons. “Of course, it would make it a painless death. If you wanted me to give it in order to spare his pain, to ease his passing...”</span></p><p class="western">Ramsay looked at him with furious disgust. “Don't be ridiculous! You want me to let him die when all he needs to do survive a single night of pain.”</p><p class="western">“<span>Extreme pain, my lord.” </span></p><p class="western">“My Reek has survived pain more extreme than your dullard mind can even imagine,” said Ramsay, a strange pride in his voice. Wolkan's eyes flickered momentarily to his patient's ruined groin, thankfully still covered with his ragged clothes. “And he will survive this too, given sufficient motivation.”</p><p class="western">Wolkan furrowed his brow at that. What could be greater motivation than to live rather than to die? But then he remembered who they were discussing here; that poor boy had been through more than enough of what could only technically be called 'living' since coming into Ramsay's hands. Perhaps he would grasp this serendipitous opportunity to free himself from his clutches, as drastic as the method might be. Despite the danger it would pose to his own self – in terms of his position and, indeed, perhaps even his life – Wolkan found himself hoping that would be the outcome here, though of course he said nothing. But it was the kindest outcome, the one that did least harm. And indeed, given the boy's shocking physical condition, the most likely.</p><p class="western">Wolkan was dismissed with a contemptuous gesture and he started to leave gratefully, relieved to no longer be directly involved. When he turned back from the door, Ramsay was looming over the patient's bed. His back was to him and so his expression could not be read, but he noted he was clenching his fists so tightly that the knuckles were white and shaking. Frustrated fury, Wolkan assumed, that his favourite toy may have been broken beyond repair. He was loath to speak again, lest his interruption made things worse, but maesterly training took over. “My lord, if he does live through to the morning, please have me called and I will bring the milk of the poppy.”</p><p class="western">Ramsay turned his head to the maester and nodded impatiently. But the expression on his face was not one Wolkan had ever seen in the young lord before; there was anger, yes, and certainly frustration too, as well as the haughty inscrutability that was ever-present in his features. But there was also a blankness there, and something else bubbling beneath which the blankness had no doubt been crafted to conceal. It made Wolkan shudder, frankly, as it reminded him of the 'motivations' mentioned earlier, the exact nature of which he did not care to contemplate. He left the room as quickly as possible, shutting the door firmly behind him and leaving Ramsay and Reek alone in the infirmary.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">~~~~~</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Reek only realised he had been drifting into unconscious when his lord's voice, low and close to his ear, brought him crashing back into the world.</p><p class="western">“Who are you? What is your name?”</p><p class="western">Reek was so grateful that he nearly wept. He knew this game, knew it so well from having it beaten and flayed and starved into him that he could recite the litany even in his current, disoriented state.</p><p class="western">“Reek, my lord, my name is Reek. Loyal Reek! Good Reek! Reek, it rhymes with...”</p><p class="western">His lord cut off his babble with a wave of his hand. His face was close enough for Reek to focus on it now, but he could see nothing beyond intensity in the cold grey eyes.</p><p class="western">“For how long?” His voice too was impossible to read, but it was far from devoid of emotion.</p><p class="western">“Always. Forever.”</p><p class="western">“Precisely.” His lord gave a quick, tight smile and placed his hand on Reek's forehead with uncharacteristic gentleness. His hand was so cool against the fire that raged in Reek's flesh that he sighed and pressed his face into his palm. His lord so seldom showed him such kindness and he wanted to demonstrate his gratitude for this undeserved act of mercy. “And what will you do for me?”</p><p class="western">“Anything, my lord, anything you want. Anything you command!”</p><p class="western">His lord smiled again. “Good. And what I command of you, Reek, is this: You. D<span>o. Not. Die. Do you understand me?”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Reek began to panic, despite everything. What was this talk of dying? Was </span>
  <em>he</em>
  <span> dying? Was his lord now going to do something to him which would end in his death? And not only that, in directly disobeying his command? His shallow breaths came quicker, and he felt another coughing fit coming on. </span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>Stop,” his lord said simply, and the coughing did indeed stop, leaving only a gurgling rattle in his chest. “You will not die, Reek. And if you do, I will come for you. You can be assured of that. Do not think for a moment that Old Gods or the Seven or even that fucking Drowned God will keep me from finding you and punishing you for your disobedience.” He leaned closer, whispering into Reek's ear. “And what a punishment it would be. Because, you see, you would already be dead. The things I could do to you when there is no risk of you escaping off into death...” His lord trailed off, lost in reveries of torture unbounded by the limitations of mortality and the fragilities of the human body. </span></p><p class="western">“<span>What is dead may never die,” Reek intoned without thinking, then gasped in horror. But his lord did not seem to hear.</span></p><p class="western">Then his lord leapt to his feet, the sudden movement making Reek flinch. “So,” he said, in that cheery tone that was so often anything but. “You lie here and you lie still, all night. You lie here and you do not die, all night. That should be simple enough, even for a creature as stupid as you. Do you understand me, Reek?”</p><p class="western">Reek took as deep a breath as he could manage without coughing. What else could he do? “Yes, m'lord.”</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">~~~~~</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The night passed, slowly and painfully and taut with struggle. Reek's tattered consciousness drifted, but he never allowed himself to pass out entirely; that could be dying, and that was something he was simply not allowed to do. If he was to avoid the horrors eternal his lord had threatened then he would have to be good, loyal, obedient Reek. He held fast to this thought like a talisman, even as his flesh burned and his every breath ravaged his chest with overwhelming agony.</p><p class="western">He must have hallucinated, because there were times when he was sure he could see his lord sitting in a chair across the room, his form silhouetted by the low glow from the fireplace. But that was ludicrous, of course; his lord would never waste his time like that. If Reek disobeyed his order, servants would inform him and then he could punish him at his leisure. There would be no limitations of time if Reek were dead.</p><p class="western">At long, long last, morning came. Reek was a heaving mess, his rags drenched with sweat even as he shivered. He was not even sure if his eyes were closed or open, as he saw nothing but swirling darkness either way. But despite his state, he had never felt such joy at hearing the dawn chorus. He had been good! He had not died, he had not disobeyed his lord. Relief flooded through his wretched body. And when he felt the merciful coolness of those hands upon his face – his lord's hands! – he began to weep.</p><p class="western">“<span>Good Reek,” he struggled to rasp between sobs and wheezes. “Good Reek, loyal Reek.” </span></p><p class="western">His lord hushed him and lifted his chin. He felt a bottle being pressed to his cracked lips and drank without hesitation – not only was he so very thirsty, but this was his lord giving it to him. It didn't matter if it was poison; if his lord wanted to kill him now, that was fine because he had been ordered only to live through the night. The bottle was removed and he sighed with something almost like contentment as he lay back, feeling his lord's cool hands carding through his damp, ragged hair. He felt his pain begin to separate from his body; or rather, it was still there but somewhere far below as he floated, held aloft by his lord's mercy.</p><p class="western">“<span>Thank you, m'lord,” he said, his voice vague and dreamlike, but full of earnest conviction. “Thank you for your kindness, your mercy. Reek is undeserving.”</span></p><p class="western">Reek could not see his lord's smile, but could hear it in his voice as he praised him, called him his loyal pet over and over as the milk of the poppy lulled him into the void of sleep.</p><p class="western">Maester Wolkan, who had been reshelving bottles and equipment on other side of the room, shook his head. So it appeared that the boy would live. And that did not seem like mercy at all.</p><p class="western"> </p>
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